Saturday Night

Such bullshit.

I'm standing alone at the Wheatsheaf. Friends went away because life happens and due to some fucking high standards I've managed to drive acquaintances far into the void of indifference.

I am a man alone, complaining he is alone, when a little bit more acceptance of my part would have made all the difference.

A woman without her right arm stands in front of me, smoking a cigarette. She's here to meet friends.

That's how it is. A girl who's not whole manages to get ahead of a dipshit that either through conscious or unconscious will has managed to live up to the notion that one man is an island.

And all the while, there's this ominous smell of sewer.